


43rd Century Christmas

by backintimeforstuff



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Christmas Kiss, Episode: s05e02 The Beast Below, F/M, Their first Christmas, a beast below christmas fic, and the star whale, just because, plus all the other bad festive stereotypes, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28160472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backintimeforstuff/pseuds/backintimeforstuff
Summary: The Doctor takes Amy back to Starship UK for Christmas, where tinsel hangs from London Market and the Smilers wear Santa hats.Post Beast Below, obviously.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Kudos: 5





	43rd Century Christmas

Keeping track of things is something Amy fails at often. She supposes she can hardly be blamed for it – standing as she is inside a time machine – but that fact doesn’t stop her from trying. Going back over memories of all the corridors she’s ever run down, all the adventures she’s ever had the luck of embarking on – all of them blend together in a messy haze, blinding colours and a whirlwind of dangerous euphoria. How many years had she been waiting for all this to happen? Her mind tells her: far too many. It’s strange that she can’t really remember. For it only feels like she’s been travelling a matter of days when _he_ comes to her, when the Doctor corners her in the control room - a stupid grin plastered all over his face with hair splayed out in tousles.

“Know what day it is?” He slams a lever down for theatrical effect and Amy just stares at him. Of all the moments she’s seen him excited about something, it’s never been quite like this. His eyes are practically gleaming. “It’s been six months. Exactly.”

“Since what?”

“Since, well, _‘come with me?’_ ” He flashes her a smile and the night before the end of the world materialises in front of her eyes, briefly, just for a moment, the twilight garden melting into copper walls. He’d turned up with a stupid smile under a starry sky, clicked his fingers and offered her all of space and time. The night they ran away together. She can’t quite believe it.

“You’re kidding?”

He just shrugs. “Trust a Time Lord.” 

“Six months!?” Amy catches up with him at the console. “I’ve been with you _six months?_ ”

“In your old linear time, yeah.” He wafts his hands around, trying to find the right words. “All the stuff we’ve done already - Churchill, those catacombs out in the Garn Belt… ooh, feels like yesterday. But I promise it’s not.” He’s flipping levers and prodding buttons, happily engrossed in flying – “And, of course, there’s the other thing.” 

“ _What_ other thing?”

“Oh, come on Pond!” Use your head!” He shoots her a vaguely dismayed look, and Amy’s back to staring at him. “What date was it, when you flew away with me?”

She raises an eyebrow. God knows she won’t ever forget the night before her wedding. “…25th June?”

“…Which would make today?” 

“Oh, you’re _kidding_.” Amy’s dimly aware she’s already asked that of him, but right now all coherent speech is tumbling right out of her mind. In any case, he’s scrambling past her, lurching for the door, slamming the handbrake before she even has time to think. 

“Promise I’m not.” 

“Christmas day!?” 

Amy’s expecting snowflakes. She’s expecting mountains of presents and roaring fires, things straight out of stereotypical childhood hopes. They could be right in the middle of Victorian London, or out in the depths of space – knowing the Doctor, wherever they are, it’s as magical as it is dangerous, as extraordinary as it is terrifying. Would it be an adventure any other way? 

The TARDIS door swings open, and her breath catches. 

_No way._

The futuristic London Market glistens in the light of tinsel streamers, fairy lights flickering colours up in the arches of the glass ceiling. Old union jacks nestle in the midst of metres of garland, and well, it’s _Christmas_.

The Doctor nods almost pointedly at her shocked silence.

“25th December, 4295. Starship UK.” 

\---

Stepping out onto the scene, the door latches shut behind them, and here they are. Christmas trees line the walkways all the way down Oxford Street, shimmering lights reflecting off the brass work of the ship. Smilers sit in their booths wearing Santa hats, motionless, grinning, watching – a lot less deadly than they seemed last time.

Amy takes one step forward and realises her mouth has been hanging open at the sight of it all – old town carols crackling on through the speakers.

Across the street, a mulled wine stand serves happy customers, and above much else, it just feels like Leadworth – with its small-town charm and festive shopping. When did the Doctor say it was? The _43rd century?_ Her head’s spinning.

The last time they were here, this was a ship on a retreat mission, barrelling across the stars in search of a new home. Bits were cobbled together, thrown in, otherwise discarded, the promise of hope holding everything together alongside sellotape and string.

In the midst of it all, Amy’s amazed. “They still have _Christmas_ here?”

The Doctor procures a novelty paper hat from the depths of his pockets and jams it on his head. “Traditions never change.” 

Amongst the carollers, the shoppers, and the excited kids, he seems to fit right in. He takes her hand, swinging it back and forth and drinking in the ambiance. “Now, Pond, six months of adventures – terrifying, exciting, all the rest of it – isn’t it time we celebrated them?”

She can’t stop a smile, not at this stage. 

\---

The first thing the Doctor does is buy her a Santa hat from a trestle table stall, spinning it around on his index finger before throwing it right at her. Weaving in and out of the Christmas trees, he’s almost like an excited woodland animal on his way to nest for the winter.

Halfway down the end of London Market, they stop to laugh at the stupid rhymes on Christmas cards, ducking past families and low hanging tinsel. Walking right up to the Smiler in its booth, the Doctor waves at it with a cheerful grin, and Amy catches sight of the stars of the stars outside a dusty porthole window.

She still can’t get her head around it. It’s been a thousand years since they last came here. Whatever happened to the solar storms, the burning sky, the _temperamental weather?_ If there’s a planet to get back to, why on Earth is this battered old ship still trawling the stars, belting out Christmas songs, centuries after they left it? 

Amy leans up against a sideboard, mulling it over. “…Shouldn’t Earth have been repopulated by now?” 

It’s a tense question, and a timid one at that. God knows what the answer is. 

“Oh, never mind Earth!” The Doctor’s drinking in a shop window, all candles and tinned biscuits. He doesn’t seem fazed at all. “Strictly speaking, after the solar flares it never really back to your typical, chip shop Friday, seven continent planet everyone knows and loves…” He trails off, catching sight of Amy’s expression. “…But, it’s not all bad.”

Looking around at all the people, now seemingly stranded with no home to go back to, Amy swallows hard. “…Is it not?”

“Of course not.” The Doctor offers her a smile and a hand round her shoulder, guiding her further down the festive market street. Pointing out all the little things they pass, the light displays, the fake snow sculptures, he explains: “All of time and space. Anywhere and everywhere, every single star in the night sky. What’s Earth when there’s everything to explore out here? All these people, they’ve barely started.”

And suddenly, it all makes sense. After all, it’s a concept Amy’s all too familiar with. What is home up against the open sky? What’s Gloucester, or Inverness for that matter, to a time machine – to endless battles and corridors where sparks fly? Six months of flying, fighting, laughing and running for their lives – God, would she ever have it another way?

Seamlessly, the Doctor holds up a tumbler of mulled wine with a soft smile, clinking it in the light of the Christmas decorations. “Here’s to the escapade.”

“Theirs or ours?” Caught off guard, Amy has to ask. 

The Doctor just smiles. She takes that to mean _both_.

\---

Half an hour later, having exhausted the pastry samples and cheap fairground rides, she and the Doctor find themselves on an empty observation deck. Away from the festivities with no one else around, stars spiral past the floor length windows and a certain calmness seems to settle. Haven’t they stood here before? Her brain is still catching up with things.

“Y’know what we were saying before, about tradition?” Breaking the silence, the Doctor starts – but then stops, somewhat abruptly, as if he’s waiting for her to fill in the blanks.

Amy raises a well-practiced eyebrow. God knows what he’s getting at. Certainly, from what she’s seen, traditions do seem to prevail here; be it Christmas or the old London Underground signs, glowing dimly at the top of the Vators. All the people here - they might be venturing off into the stars on their endless voyage, but they seem very fond of _remembering_ things too, of keeping little mementos in the form of myths and legends and spreading them out amongst the stars. It’s immortality in space travel, she supposes, for want of a better phrase.

Almost as if the Doctor’s read her train of thought, he steps away from her shoulder and runs an index finger down the tinsel-lined window pane, watching as a passing planet homes into view. 

“Starship UK.” He smiles. “Starship of myths. Among other things.”

“Any good ones?” Amy’s always up for a good old fashioned fairy-tale.

The Doctor laughs. “One or two. There’s always _The Maiden and the Beast_.”

And without any inclination from her, he’s already off, hands running over lapels, remembering, dictating, strolling around. “So it’s said, once upon a thousand years ago, this ship was in peril.” Almost in agreement, the steel around them seems to creak at his very words. It’s a far cry from the Christmas stalls on the other side of the wall, and Amy chooses to ignore the involuntary shiver that runs the length of her spine. It’s December, after all. The Doctor laments. “Starship UK - deeply corrupt, from the inside out, no hope of advance, or achievement, no hope of a new home.”

“Sounds familiar?” Amy eyes him. It’s how they first knew the ship, after all. Without acknowledging her question, the Doctor continues. 

“According to legend, or whomever you might choose to believe – salvation came in the form of a lonely traveller, a nameless girl. A thousand years ago, she saved everyone. All the humans, all the smilers, and the winders, the Queen herself, and of course – the beast.”

“But-” 

“And, as is always the way, as soon as she arrived, she was gone. They say she made change in _half a day_. The ship was no longer corrupt, the truth was finally out, from that point onwards – there were no secrets.” 

Suddenly, The Doctor turns to face her. He’s wearing an expression that’s impossible to read. Framed by the tinsel, he looks like a myth himself, all dark eyed and gleaming. “The girl who saved the Star Whale. No one knows who she was, why she came, or if she even existed. But _I_ do.”

Amy stares at him, completely star struck, spellbound, caught off guard.

There’s _no way_. He must be joking. He must be making fun of an old escapade, recounting just for the hell of it – prepping the start of a long-winded Christmas anecdote.

Instead, he tells her to look up. 

Almost modestly, after all that, he gestures to the ceiling, and there it is. Painted, now peeling, is a faded mural of the Star Whale – of the Starship in all its ruins and a girl in a nightdress with ginger hair. The face might be blank, but it’s unmistakable. 

The Doctor comes back to stand by Amy shoulder, slipping his fingers into the palm of her hand.

“People _remember_ you. And they are _so proud_.”

Eventually, she remembers how to speak, but it’s not before her entire life has just been mythologised in front of her, not before the weirdest and most wonderful night of her entire life has become a daydream, a religion amongst the stars for all the people still lost, travelling here. 

Up above them, it’s all colours and swirls, dominating the room with a kind of regal splendour. Observation deck or otherwise, it suddenly feels like a throne room, where royalty have come to crown their families over centuries. Amy doesn’t know why she lets her mind run away from her.

In amongst the starlight, something catches. The mural is beautiful, there’s no doubt about that – it’s all starting to feel a bit like Sistine Chapel. But there’s something missing. _Someone_ missing. Painted up there in the rafters, there’s no blue box, no time machine, no mad man in a bow tie who brought her here in the first place.

Amy turns to look at him.

“…Didn’t they remember _you?_ ”

The Doctor just smiles. “After what I almost did? I don’t count.” 

He wafts his hand gently at the floor, and Amy follows his gaze. Underneath the sheet of steel, underneath the tangle of wires and endless floors heading down and down, her mind starts to wonder.  
Is the Star Whale still down there, after all this time? Is it still guiding, pulling the human race away from the fire?

She can feel the Doctor watching her with that slight smile of his.

Crouching down and placing the palm of her hand flat on the floor of the observation deck, it’s like she’s waiting to find a heartbeat, a glimmer of life in amongst all the brass and the building work.

Tense seconds pass.

“What do you think?” The Doctor asks, backing off, leaning up against the wall behind her like he’s been waiting for her realisation all along. So much for magnetism.

Amy just looks at him. “…No vibration?”

“ _No vibration._ ” 

And it’s her turn to smile. She tilts her head to look at the mural one last time, and God, it feels as though she might cry. 

“May I take the maiden to see the beast?”

At the Doctor’s request, Amy has to laugh. “You _may._ ”

\---

Wandering their way down in the underbelly of the ship, where corridors twist and turn and high speed Vators trundle back and forth, the Doctor smiles. He loves moments like this. It might well be Christmas, might well be a celebration they’ll never forget, but to the people of Starship UK, it’s a legend coming true. Coming back for a victory lap, _The Maiden and the Beast_ , it’s the sword in the stone and St George and the dragon all over again – the culmination of longing and hoping and _wondering_ for so long that Fairytales might just exist – out there, somewhere. 

He’s travelled enough to know they do.

In through a side door, down a long corridor, the lights are dim this close to the airlocks. Their footsteps echo on the floor, and following the Doctor with a sense of excitement, Amy wonders if it’ll be anything like last time.

Will it be just as daunting, just as mind-bending? It might have been a thousand years for the people up above, but for her… 

It still feels like yesterday. 

Looked up in the torture chamber of the tower of London, watching as Liz Ten recounted their history, staring in the face of disbelief as the Doctor almost destroyed them all. Smilers and winders in every corner, no hope of escape – 

_God, there it is_.

Jolting back to the present, her breath catches. There’s no mistaking it. 

From behind a gap in the wall, though a wide, gaping crooked smile crack – the Star Whale lies, growing through the mechanisms of the ship. After all this time, it’s still roaming through the asteroid belts, lost, alone, and giving everything it can to help.

The Doctor reaches his hand through his hand through the gap, giving it a wave and a smile. “Hello old friend.” Amy’ll remember that one. “ _Merry Christmas_. Remember us?”

_Just look at the two of them,_ Amy thinks. Almost awestruck by the sight in front of her, The Doctor and the Star Whale, two of a kind, and the last of both, sharing in the memory of the ancient universe and extending a hand to anyone who even dares to ask for help. 

Thinking back to that night all those years ago, when the wind battered the windows and the stars hung in the sky, Amy had prayed for a hero. At the tail end of the 20th century, she’d sat in her bedroom and she’d prayed for a saviour, for a protector, for a police man, for a Doctor.

More than 20,000 years later – here he is. Here the both of them are. The Doctor and the Beast. That ridiculous man with a cracker hat still perched on his quiff; he’d fallen out of the sky and _saved her_ , mapped out the universe in front of her eyes like the most attainable thing in the world. 

He’d taken her to a battered old starship where the rules were all back to front, where people dealt in secrets and deception just to keep afloat. Down in the tower of London there’d been an engine and a beast, a poor trapped, terrified creature and the key to solving it all.

God, it feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like five minutes. Right now though, she supposes, it feels an awful lot like Christmas.

She might be staring into the depths of a cavernous hole, eye to eye with an alien whale, but she’s wearing a Santa hat. She can taste the remnants of mulled wine on her lips and the general festive feeling that comes with it all.

It’s almost funny really, she wouldn’t expect the Doctor to think twice about Christmas. Of all the things he’s ever seen, all the things he’s ever done, she wouldn’t expect him to bat an eyelid at an insignificant Earth tradition – never mind get lost in the middle of it. The fact that he does, well in many ways it makes him just that bit more endearing. Here he is, that ancient wonderer, pursuer of time itself, thrilled by a Christmas tree. She loves that about him. Entirely and completely. 

Leaning down next to him, he’s speaking to the Star Whale in a language Amy can’t begin to understand, some ancient tongue long lost to the turn of the universe. Up above, life goes on, with trestle tables and mince pies, and here the two of them are, just… talking. Existing. 

“Can you tell it… y’know, _thank you?_ ”

On behalf of everyone on Starship UK, it’s all Amy can think about. How many chances are there to look something so heroic straight in the eyes and commit to a line of gratitude? Maybe if the Doctor wasn’t so prone to making fun of her sincerity, then she might tell him _thank you_ too – make a big show of emotional vulnerability.

After a moment, he laughs quietly. “Believe me, Pond, you of all people - you’re very welcome.” 

Amy takes one glance at the Star Whale. “Did it _say_ that?” It’s screams were above the range of human hearing last time, so she’s supposes its speech is too.

From where they’re crouching, they’re inches apart. The Doctor just looks at her. “We both did.”

\---

Saying their farewells to the Star Whale, Amy’s well prepared to head back upstairs, to sample seventeen types of Christmas cake, or pop in on the Royals. But it seems the Doctor has other ideas.

Taking her hand as nonchalantly as possible, he leads her down a further corridor, taking them past vacated stamp desks and straight down to the airlocks. 

Ahead of them, there’s nothing but twisted metal and deafening silence – the underbelly of the ship beckoning to them. Following the Doctor with vague apprehension, Amy wonders what could possibly be through here. After all that’s happened, she doesn’t know how much more she can take. An old observation deck offered her own life wrapped up in legend, so God knows what’s down here, encased by the outer walls of the starship.

At any rate, a thought has just come to her. Not two hours ago, the Doctor had flown past her down the steps from the console, citing celebrations and sixth months of escapades. 

And they ended up _here_. 

Of all the places they could have raised a glass or two, watched a sunset or danced the night away, it’s this battered old spaceship trawling out amongst the stars that’s hosting their first Christmas together. And unless he was planning the legend reveal all along, there’s got to be a reason for it. Catching up with him at the end of the passageway, the ship spans above them, and the depths of space press up against the glass of the porthole window. 

“Can I ask you something?” It’s another tense question, she’s well aware of that. The Doctor’s looking at her with all the makings of a pointed gaze. “Why did you choose to come here?”

“Blimey, thought you would have worked _that one_ out.” He’s straightening his lapels with a questioning eyebrow, almost affronted by her ignorance. 

“Well, I…” Amy gestures loosely around. “This was our first adventure.”

“Yes.” He taps her lightly on the nose, with all the magnetism he can muster. 

“So, that’s it?”

“Isn’t that _enough?_ ”

Amy smiles. Yes, she supposes, it is. For a man who’s quietly accepted her _thank yous_ without much fuss, taken her window shopping on the deck of an impossible starship, it’s far more than enough. Ever since the legend of their story rolled off his tongue up there, where tinsel glistens and everyone’s full of smiles, he’s been nothing short of wonderful. From the very first night they met, he’d offered her the stars in the palm of his hand, taken her to the far reaches of time and space without asking for anything in return. And tonight, it seems to be Christmas.

All the people on board Starship UK, well, they put on a hell of a good one. 

It’s what they’ve come out here for at any rate – for trinkets, and presents, and fake snow falling from the ceiling. Through the groans of the old ship, there are festive carols and light and hope and laughter – and she’d expect nothing less from all the people who once called Earth a home.

There’s a little blue box standing stoically by the wreath selection, all bigger on the inside and glowing bright gold. Leaning up by the mulled wine stand, what was it the Doctor had said? 

_Here’s to the escapade._ Amy watches as the stars float by outside the porthole. Here’s to the best of days. Here’s to the Scottish girl and the idiot in a bow tie. God, she’d raise a thousand glasses if she could. 

“Ha.” The Doctor says, quietly, under his breath, jerking her out of the moment. 

Amy stares at him. “ _What?_ ”

“Look up.”

And if Amy’s expecting another mural, then it’s not what she’s met with. The Doctor’s walked a bit further on down the corridor, right where the path leads back to a never-ending spiral staircase and mess of Vator cables. And there, dangling from the ceiling completely appropriately out of place, is a bunch of Mistletoe. 

Maybe she should have seen it coming. Maybe it’s just another way of saying thank you.

After all, he’s all bright eyes and wayward curls, and frankly, if there’s one Christmas tradition she wants to keep tonight, then this one might be it.

Never mind his squeak of surprise or flapping hands, never mind the flush that burns his cheeks – a Christmas kiss by the airlocks, it is.

And in any case, Amy’s not exactly minding.

“Hey.” 

She’s got her arms around his shoulders, fingers playing in his hair, and it strikes her that this is oddly like last time, albeit it with a Santa hat thrown in.

“What?” He’s looking at her with wide eyes.

“ _Gotcha._ ” 

She wonders whether all myths and legends end this way, with this kind of happily ever after. Their first hug by the long window seems to have been replaced by a kiss at the stroke of midnight – silent under the Mistletoe like all the fairy-tales that have ever dared to exist. 

Whether they’re off upstairs to ponder in the Christmas trees, snog behind the shrubbery, or simply dematerialise somewhere else altogether, is anyone’s guess. 

All she knows for sure, standing here by the porthole window, is that this 43rd century Christmas definitely beats them all.


End file.
